The other email was from an old friend, a guitarist named Jerry in another band that he’d toured alongside years ago. The subject line, simple, said “Re: Suggestion.” This made him curious.
But the email wasn’t addressed to him—and it happened to be a chain.
* * *
Hey Alan,
* * *
Nicole’s side project is wasting away and she wants to record it yesterday. She doesn’t want to wait two months until Canard is ready to work with her. I’ve copied my old friend Quentin Russo on this email. He’s a hell of a producer and if you need me to point you to some of his work, just say the word. I’ll personally vouch for him. And Nicole wants to work with him.
Anyway, you and Quentin work out a deal and let me and Nicole know what to do next.
* * *
Cheers,
Jer
* * *
The first email had been about one of Jerry’s projects and had nothing to do with this present email. If Quentin had had more time to process, he would have felt a little happiness for his old friend, because it looked like he and his old girlfriend were still together.
Instead, he was mired in shame and conflict. Alan, the studio exec his old friend Jerry had reached out to, was someone who had flat out told Quentin he wouldn’t work with him if he was the last producer on earth. In fact, he’d said, “I’d have my five-year-old produce this album before letting your brand of poison anywhere near it.”
It stung…and Quentin had never forgotten it. He knew that the few who spoke were rare. More common were the ones who never said a word but never considered him at all.
Letting out a slow breath, he ran his hand through his dark brown hair before getting up to walk around the studio. Unlike other areas in his house, this room had no windows. It was fairly stark but soundproof, with every instrument in its place, the computer as well as the recording and mixing equipment up against one entire wall in the control room. The studio wasn’t huge, but it was perfect for recording, mixing, and producing any sort of album anyone might want to create. And, in addition to an array of instruments, he had a variety of digital ones that mimicked the real deal perfectly. Although his roots were in heavy metal, he’d take any artist nowadays—and the few he’d worked with, none rock stars, had benefitted from his guidance and work.
But it was his roots that kept him from getting the work he craved. Those explosive days with the wildly successful Jokers Wilder loomed large over his present life. He’d been such a fucking hothead back then—but not entirely without reason. He could still feel that rage that had consumed him back then when he’d finally left the band. Too much anger, too many illicit substances.
Too big a fucking ego.
Still, he’d had plenty of legitimate reasons for feeling the way he had. Elijah Wilder had, at one time, been a good friend, but that guy’s ego put Quentin’s to shame. There hadn’t been room in the band for growth or autonomy. Secure in his own fame, Quentin had left the band, signing a contract with another label to release a solo album. He’d had no problem getting that contract, because he was well known in the industry, particularly because Jokers Wilder’s first studio album went double platinum three years after its release—and their second album peaked at number four on the Billboard 200. Quentin was worshipped by men and wanted by any woman he could have ever wanted to have—and he’d known he was a goddamned rock god.
Until he was banished from Mount Olympus.
His solo album should have been a commercial success. Every single track was fucking flawless. He’d spent agonizing hours while taking his first shot at producing. The album had sold and done pretty well—but it was panned by critics and at least half the fans, even while they came out for the tour.
Was it because it had all the bells and whistles…but no soul?
Probably. The album—every song on it—was perfect, not a note out of place. No one could find fault with the actual work. But it was “missing something.”
The fans had turned on him and picked their side, many of them saying Quentin was washed up and that leaving Jokers Wilder had been a bad idea. And there was nothing he could do about that.
For a brief moment, he felt bile in his gut—because, much as he wanted to be angry with the world about it all…he knew it had all been his doing. He was the reason why his life was the way it was today. No matter what he thought about Elijah Wilder, he knew his fate rested on his own shoulders.
And he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it right.
Placing a finger on his favorite guitar standing upright in its stand, he suspected he’d never play for an audience again—or record an album under his own name. It was bad enough reliving that time of his life as a sense of despair overtook him whenever he did.
But here…in his studio helping other artists, he could shine. They could bring the heart and soul of the message they wanted to share—and he was far enough removed from their art that he could decide which imperfections made each song better and which needed to be removed. He truly felt like a genius as he manipulated their tracks for maximum impact. He knew how their songs would hit the audience’s ears and hearts, and he could bring out the best in each song.
But few artists or labels gave him a chance. They knew his history, his reputation as a volatile loose cannon, and no one wanted to risk it, even though, with what few opportunities he’d had, he’d come through.
Today, he knew his stage days were behind him, and he was more than okay with that—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help others share their talents with the world. He could bring their music alive like no one else.
Few could see that, though.
